


You Have to Leave After Mac ’n Cheese

by stupidfinewriterchick



Series: Life Hacks and Snack Attacks [1]
Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Author Is Sleep Deprived, Crack, Fluff and Crack, Fluff and Humor, Fluff without Plot, Friendship, Gen, I’m still kinda new to RvB forgive me, Wash is soft for Caboose, Wash is tired, but I mean who isn't, post-sidewinder, that’s his role within the fandom right?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-10
Updated: 2020-03-10
Packaged: 2021-03-01 03:14:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,756
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23088361
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stupidfinewriterchick/pseuds/stupidfinewriterchick
Summary: It’s just a normal Tuesday night in the Blue Base. Grif just wants some peace and quiet. Caboose just wants some mac ‘n cheese. Wash just wants to know what the hell is going on.AKA - The Reds & Blues have a midnight snack.
Relationships: Blue Team & Red Team & Agent Washington (Red vs. Blue)
Series: Life Hacks and Snack Attacks [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1660066
Comments: 10
Kudos: 62





	You Have to Leave After Mac ’n Cheese

**Author's Note:**

> This kind of snowballed while I was under extreme sleep deprivation, so I apologize for any awkward OOCness.

A clatter wakes Wash from a fitful sleep. He’s on his feet, pistol in hand before he’s fully awake.

“Oops.”

The familiar voice echoes softly from down the hall. Wash blinks, heart hammering in his chest, then forces himself to relax.

_It’s just Caboose._

He sighs and lowers the pistol, running a hand through his hair. It’s barely been a week since Sidewinder, and he’s still trying to adjust to the concept of there being no one around who wants to kill him.

Well, no one except maybe Sarge.

Wash glances at the clock. 1:47 AM blinks back at him.

He looks to his bed, and the pillows and blankets look _so_ warm and inviting. But, with another sigh, he knows he better check on Caboose. He hesitates, then sets his gun back on his bedside table. He has to remind himself that he doesn’t need it here.

_They’re safe here._

Groggily, he makes his way down the hall.

“Hey Caboose, what’s going—“

Wash stops dead.

“Oh, hey Agent Scary Freelancer.”

Private Grif sits at the kitchen table with his chair leaning back against the wall. Abandoning his usual orange armor, he now dons only a sweatshirt and sweatpants. A box of poptarts sits open before him, from which he currently stuffs his face. There’s also a large pot of water on the stove and several smaller pots scattered across the counter.

Wash narrows his eyes. What is the Red doing here? How did he get in so easily? And why would be launching an attack at this hour? Wash wouldn’t put it past Sarge, but _Grif?_ He hasn’t even brought a weapon.

“Hello Agent Washington!”

Wash does a double take as he finally notices Caboose on the floor, sitting cross-legged at the Red’s feet. And is... is Grif _petting_ him??? …Yes. To Wash’s utter astonishment, Grif is petting Caboose, fingers ruffling the younger man’s hair and scratching at his scalp as though he were a cat. Caboose’s eyes droop, a contented smile on his face.

For a moment Wash can only stand in the doorway, speechless. The knife block is in his line of sight on the counter, just within reach, but doesn’t grab one. Yet. He adds it to his list of assets should the Red Trooper get any ideas, then simply takes up a defensive stance.

“You,” he growls. “What are you doing here?”

“Oh, Grif is just spying on us,” Caboose says nonchalantly.

Grif nods emphatically.

“This is a reconnaissance mission.”

Wash blinks.

“Reconnaissance,” he repeats.

“Yeahhhhh,” Caboose says, leaning back slightly as Grif continues to ruffle his hair. “Sarge orders Grif to do the renaissance on Tuesday nights, so Grif comes over and has a snack with us.”

Wash frowns.

“That’s not usually how reconnaissance missions work,” he states.

“Well they do here!” Grif announces. “Geez, I can’t believe they haven’t told you!”

“Wait...” Wash says, his brain only now catching up to register what Caboose and Grif are actually saying. “This is a... regular thing?”

“Yeah man!” Grif swallows his mouthful of poptart and tears into the second. “Get with the program! I spy on you on Tuesday nights, but it’s so boooooring, so we usually pass the time by having a snack. And by ‘usually’ I mean every time.”

“Ohh!” Caboose cries and points to the pot on the stove. “I am making mac ‘n cheese!”

Wash eyes the stove again and notices that, 1) it hasn’t been turned on, and 2) the entire box of macaroni has been dropped into the pot and left to float on the water’s surface.

Wash looks from the pot, to Grif, to the poptarts in his hand, to Caboose, then back at Grif.

What the _hell_ is going on?

He does his best to assess the situation.

Caboose doesn’t appear to be in immediate danger, but he’s still all but completely incapacitated by the Red. Priority one, then, is to get Caboose away from Grif.

Wash takes a cautious step towards the table.

“What are you playing at, Grif?” he asks.

“I just told you!”

“No.”

“No?”

“Reconnaissance is a _spy_ mission, and when you spy on someone, they’re not actually supposed to know that you’re spying on them.”

Caboose frowns.

“Why would you not tell someone you’re spying on them? That would just be rude!”

Wash ignores Caboose and takes another step forward.

“Seriously Grif, what are you doing here? How did you get into our base?”

“I knocked on your nonexistent door and then gave Caboose the password.”

Wash blinks.

“The... wait a minute, since when have we had a password?”

“Um, duhhh!” Caboose explains, as if it should be obvious. “We’ve always had a password, Wash.”

“Yeah, Wash!” Grif adds.

Wash glares at him.

“Okay, then what is it?”

“The what is what?”

“The _password_ Caboose. What’s the password?”

“It starts with ‘I forgot,’” says Caboose matter-of-factly, “and ends differently.”

Wash stares at him.

“Wait, I’m sorry. Is that… the actual password? Or are you trying to explain how to say it?”

“Yes.”

“Trust me dude,” Grif says. “It’s better if you don’t ask.”

Caboose shrugs.

“Clearly you were not at the staff meeting.”

Grif opens another pack of poptarts.

Wash sighs and pinched the bridge of his nose. “So let me get this straight.”

He takes another step forward.

“Sarge ordered you to spy on us.”

Grif nods. “Yep.”

“And now you’re eating our food.”

“Yeah.”

Wash turns to Caboose.

“And you just _let him in?_ ”

Caboose shrugs.

“He knew the password!”

Wash gives Grif a flat look.

“So what, Sarge just sends you on recon missions in the middle of the night?” He looks Grif up and down. “Without weapon or armor?”

Grif stretches and yawns.

“Yeah, I think Sarge hopes I’ll accidentally get shot, so he doesn’t enforce it on these missions.”

“But, _technically,_ you’re… working.” It’s a statement, not a question. 

“Ehhh, Simmons calls it the ‘night shift.’” Grif makes quotations with his fingers and rolls his eyes. “Night shift, ha! Like that’s an actual thing that people do.”

Wash opens his mouth. Closes it again. Shakes his head.

Caboose throws up his hands.

“And now you’re awake too which means we can have a snack party!”

Wash doesn’t like this. What is Red Team hiding? He looks down at Caboose.

He closes the distance between them.

“Hey, Caboose buddy?”

Wash extends a hand out to the younger man. With a delighted grin, Caboose accepts it and allows Wash to pull him to his feet. His movement fluid, Wash spins until Caboose is behind him, positioning himself between him and Grif.

Caboose gasps excitedly.

“Are we gonna dance now?” he cries.

In less than three seconds, Wash has a fist inches from Grif’s face.

Grif flinches back and throws up his hands, chair slamming back onto all fours.

“Dude, seriously?”

“Who else is here?” Wash demands.

“No one!” Grif cries. “I’m alone, I swear! Dude, if you just don’t want me eating your poptarts I can—”

Wash smacks Grif in neck with the side of his hand. Lightly, but still enough to get the point across.

“Ahh! Geez!” Grif sputters, grabbing at his neck. “Seriously dude?”

“What are you _really_ playing at, Grif?” Wash demands.

“Nothing!”

Wash makes a move as if to thwack Grif again, and the private flinches, throwing up his hands to ward him off.

“Ahh! No!” he wails. “I just want some peace and quiet!”

Wash lowers his fist, but only by a fraction.

“Peace and quiet.”

He looks to Caboose, who offers him a huge smile, then looks back at Grif.

“You came _here_ for peace and quiet?”

“It’s quieter here than at _our_ place,” Grif mutters.

“Peace and quiet,” Wash repeats. “In the dead of night. When everyone is asleep.”

“Clearly you’ve never been to red base in the middle of the night.”

Wash rolls his eyes.

“I’m not buying it. What’s _really_ going on?”

“Nothing!”

“What are you hiding?” Wash demands, louder.

“ _Nothing!_ ” Grif insists.

“ _Grif?!?!_ ”

All three men’s heads snap towards the door.

“ _Are you in there, Grif?_ ”

Simmons’ voice cracks as he tries and fails to be loud and quiet at the same time.

Wash turns his gaze slowly back to the orange trooper and raises an eyebrow as if to say, _All alone, huh?_

Grif winces and smiles sheepishly.

“Simmons!” he quickly whisper-yells back. “What the hell are you doing here?”

There’s a scuffling sound, followed by Simmons poking his head in around the door to the kitchen.

“I was looking for you!” he says, still whisper-yelling. “You weren’t in your room!”

“Well I’m right here!”

“Well you could have told me that!”

“You already knew that!”

“No I didn’t!”

“Yes you did! It’s Tuesday, remember?”

“Uh, _technically_ it’s Wednesday now—”

“Guys,” Wash interrupts, pinching the bridge of his nose. “We’re literally _right here_. You don’t have to whisper.”

“Oh,” Simmons and Grif say in unison.

Simmons clears his throat as he steps all the way into the kitchen, still in his pajamas.

“So, uh, why are you here again, Grif?” he asks.

Grif gestures vaguely around the room.

“Dude. Tuesday. I’m on recon duty.”

Simmons blinks.

“Uhhh, oh! Wait. Right. Okay.” He pauses a beat. “That’s still a thing?”

Grif shrugs.

“Well, I’m here, so it’s still a thing.”

“And we are having snacks,” Caboose adds happily. Wash feels the air shift as behind him as Caboose hoists himself up onto the counter.

“Oh.” Simmons rubs an arm. “Uhhh… can I have some?”

“Yes!” Caboose says, at the same time Wash says, “No!”

All eyes turn on the ex-Freelancer.

Wash growls out a sigh, a sound he feels he makes more and more as the days go by.

“Look, Grif, Simmons, you can’t stay. It’s the middle of the night and—”

At that moment, Tucker stumbles into the room, bleary-eyed and wearing only a pair of faded boxer shorts.

“Okay,” he groans. “Who the _hell_ is making all this racket?” He rubs his eyes, then he catches sight of Grif and Simmons. “Oh, hey guys.”

Grif mock salutes. Simmons gives an awkward little wave.

Tucker blinks the sleep away. “Wait, is it Tuesday? Dude, I lost track of time!”

Wash throws up his hands.

“Was _anyone_ going to tell me this was a thing?” he cries. “Or was I just supposed to walk in here and find Grif eating all our food???”

Tucker turns to him and deadpans, “Hey Wash, just so you know, Grif visits on Tuesdays nights and eats all our food.”

“Yes, thank you, _Lavernius_.”

Tucker flips him off and opens the fridge.

“Damnit, we’re out of pudding cups.”

He turns and narrows his eyes at Grif.

Grif holds up his hands as if in surrender.

“I didn’t touch your stupid pudding cups!”

Caboose pokes at the box of mac ‘n cheese floating in the pot.

“How long until this becomes cheesy?”

Simmons shuffles around the table towards the fridge.

“Have you got any hummus?” he asks Tucker.

“Why would we keep humans in the fridge?”

“Shut up, Caboose!” says Tucker.

“You guys don’t have _any_ vegetables in here?” Simmons says disparagingly.

“Dude, unless you count instant mashed potatoes—” begins Tucker

“I _don’t_.”

“—then I haven’t eaten a vegetable in _years._ ”

Grif throws out his hands.

“See, that’s what I’m _saying!_ ” he cries. “Who the hell eats actual vegetables anymore?”

“Seriously guys,” says Caboose. “When is the mac going to become cheesy?”

“Oh, well what about mac ‘n cheese?” Tucker offers. “That counts as a vegetable, right?”

“No!” Simmons bemoans. “It does _not_. Besides, I’m a vegan.”

“Eh, pretty sure the cheese part of the macaroni is fake.”

“Please _stop,_ ” groans Wash.

“HIYA!” yells Sarge.

“Wait… _Sarge?_ ” cries Grif.

The Red Team captain appears in the doorway, fully dressed in his armor, shotgun raised high.

“You dirty Blues!” he yells. “What are you up to? Kidnapping my men???”

“What are _we_ up to?” Wash cries. This is it. He’s absolutely going to lose it. “You’re the ones who are invading _us!_ ”

Ignoring him, Sarge turns to his subordinates.

“What are you dirtbags doing here?” He turns and narrows his eyes at the orange soldier. “Grif! Am I to believe you’ve gotten yourself captured?” 

“Yes,” Grif deadpans. “I’ve been captured. Now please leave.”

Sarge lets out a growl, lowering his shotgun as he turns to Wash. “As much as it pains me to do so, I’m afraid I must congratulate you on capturing this lowlife and holding him hostage under the guise of free food!”

“We didn’t promise him anything!” Wash sighs in exasperation.

“I now have no choice but to make a hasty retreat and leave him behind! C’mon, Simmons!”

“Actually, Sarge,” Simmons interjects. “Grif’s just on recon.”

Sarges pauses and tilts his head to the side in surprise.

“Recon?” he repeats. Then he _chuckles._ “I plum forgot it was Tuesday!”

“Wanna snack?” Tucker offers.

“No!!!” Wash cries.

“You got any yoohoo’s left?” And to Wash’s utter astonishment, Sarge holsters his shotgun and pulls out one of the kitchen chairs.

He feels like he’s having an out-of-body experience as he watches Tucker wordlessly reach into the fridge. He pulls out a pink-filled bottle, which he passes to Simmons, who hands it to Caboose, who then eagerly turns and slaps the bottle into Wash’s hand. Wash has all of three seconds to stare in disbelief at the strawberry beverage before Sarge swipes it out of his hand.

“Ah!” the older man sighs as he opens it and takes a swig. How he manages to do this without removing his helmet is beyond Wash. “Perfect!”

“What about fruit?” Simmons offers. “Surely you have _something_ fresh?”

“Stop!” Wash yells. “Just _stop!_ ”

The room goes silent as all eyes turn on him. He turns and glares at Sarge.

“You can’t be here,” he says. “You need to leave, _now._ ”

“But we just _got_ here,” Simmons whines.

“None of you should be here in the first place!” Wash looks around the room at all the bewildered expressions. “I mean…” he backtracks. “Aren’t you supposed to be on opposite sides or something?”

“Yes!” shouts Sarge.

“Uh, _technically_ not really?” interjects Grif. “I mean, we’ve kind of been locked in a temporary truce since before we were reassigned from Blood Gulch.”

“Why does it matter anymore?” demands Tucker. “What, do you _want_ us to fight each other all the time?”

“What I _want_ is a good night’s sleep, and I can’t do that when _some people_ ,” Wash narrows his eyes at Sarge, “would likely to try and kill me in it.”

Sarge chuckles.

“I can try to kill you now if that would make you feel better!”

“No. You’re in _our_ base, under _our_ roof, which means you have to follow _our_ rules.”

Tucker snorts. “Dude, the only rules in blue base are to not kill the leader. Though we could probably get that temporarily waived for you…”

Wash ignores the comment.

“I’m adding a new rule. Tuesday recon night or whatever the hell this is supposed to be is cancelled. Get out.”

“Aww,” sighs Simmons.

“Seriously?” bemoans Grif.

“Dude!” whines Tucker. “You’re such a buzzkill!”

“But I thought we could—” Simmons tries.

“No,” Wash cuts him off.

“But I’m still hungry—” Grif begins.

“I don’t care,” Wash deadpans.

“But Wash—”

“No, Caboose!” Wash says, spinning on his heel. “We don’t have time for—”

But then, he stops.

Wash thought he understood the definition of pouting. Many, many years ago, his little sister had pouted at him. She’d do it to try and get her way, batting her eyelashes and raising her voice in a little whine.

“ _C’moooooooooon David, pleeeeeeeeeeeease!_ ”

He’d never caved though. He’d been immune to sisterly pouts.

Wash thought he knew what a pout was.

Wash was wrong.

Caboose’s bottom lip protrudes in the perfect pucker. His brow furrows, making the tiniest little crease between his eyebrows. And his eyes, already a bright blue, only seem to get bluer and, beyond all comprehension, larger and rounder.

“What about my mac ‘n cheese?” Caboose asks, and his voice is so stupidly soft and he looks so utterly _heartbroken_ , as if somehow all his hopes and dreams had been pinned on eating his stupid mac ‘n cheese, with all these stupid simulation troopers standing around and bickering stupidly with each other.

It leaves Wash so completely stunned that for a moment, he can’t speak.

His mouth falls open.

Oh.

Oh _crap_.

_He can’t say no to this man._

“Well…” he begins. “I… guess…” he mumbles “I mean, I suppose…” he tries. “You could… finish your mac ‘n cheese… first…”

Caboose’s eyes widen by a fraction.

“And could Grif have some?”

Wash blinks.

“Um…” he says.

_Say no!!!_

“…sure?”

And just like that, it’s as if someone flips a switch and all of Caboose’s sadness is transformed into the purest joy. His entire face lights up and he flashes Wash the brightest, sweetest, _stupidest_ toothy smile.

“Yay!” Caboose cheers, throwing up his hands.

Then Wash blinks again, and it’s as if a spell is lifted as the entire room explodes. 

“Holy _shit!_ ” marvels Tucker. “That actually _worked!_ ”

“No take backs!” calls Grif. “You all heard it! Wash said we could stay!”

“It’s _witchcraft_ I tell you!” exclaims Simmons. “Witchcraft!”

“Haha!” laughs Sarge. “That was something else!”

“Hooray!” shouts Caboose. “We are all cheering!”

“What the _hell_ just happened?” says Wash.

“Around here,” Grif laughs, “we like to say, _you just got Caboosed._ ”

“I’m sorry?”

“It’s okay I forgive you,” answers Caboose.

“Don’t feel bad Wash,” Simmons says, gingerly patting the agent’s shoulder. “ _Everyone_ has fallen prey to Caboose’s puppy-dog gaze at some point.”

“It’s those goshdarn blue devil eyes!” Sarge grumbles under his breath. “They’re so… _big_.”

“Church tried to fight it,” Tucker laughs. “But he was weak in the end.”

Wash siiiiiighs and rubs a hand over his face. _God_ he’s so tired.

“Fine. Fine! You can stay! BUT—” and here he lifts a finger. “You _have_ to leave after Caboose has his mac ‘n cheese.”

That has got to be the most ridiculous sentence to have _ever_ come out of his mouth. Geez, these idiots are starting to rub off on him.

“Yay!” shouts Caboose.

“Alright!” sings Grif.

“Okay,” begins Simmons, turning back to Tucker. “Now what about that fruit?”

And just like that, the conversation resumes as if there had never been an interruption.

Wash closes his eyes. He can practically feel the braincells dying, one by one.

Wordlessly, he turns around to face the stove. He fishes the box of macaroni out of the pot. He turns the stove on. He stands motionless in front of the pot, as the Reds and Blues continue to bicker and banter, until the water finally boils. He dumps the noodles into the pot. He watches the boiling water. One minute. Three minutes. Seven minutes.

Caboose still sits on the counter, legs swinging, a smile on his face, every so often glancing over at the pot to observe the process.

Wash takes the pot off the stove. He drains the water. He stirs in the packet of fake-ass cheese. He adds some pepper. When he turns to Caboose, the younger man is already eagerly holding out a bowl for him.

Wash spoons mac ‘n cheese into the bowl.

He turns to hand it back to Caboose—only to find the younger man holding out a second bowl. Wash stares at it.

Oh.

Right.

The bowls exchange hands and Caboose happily digs into his snack.

Wash spoons mac ‘n cheese into the second bowl.

He walks back to the table and none-too-gently drops the bowl in front of Grif.

“What about a spoon?” Grif asks without so much as a ‘thank you.’

“I’m sure you already know where they are,” Wash muses.

Wash then promptly takes a seat at the table. He closes his eyes and crosses his arms, leaning back in his chair as he lets the animated voices of the simtroopers wash over him. Might as well get some rest wherever he can. His reputation as a stone-cold, heartless ex-Freelancer just got royally flattened by arguably the least-threatening member of Blue Team. He’s blaming that on the sleep-deprivation.

He’s drifting on the edge of unconsciousness when he feels the air shift next to him. Cracking his eyes open, he sees Caboose falling into the seat beside him.

He blinks.

No mac ‘n cheese in sight.

Wash shifts slightly to allow him a better view around the room.

Grif still sits at the table… now munching on a cheese stick. Of course he is. Wash notes the bowl sitting before him is, unsurprisingly, devoid of mac ‘n cheese.

Tucker leans against the fridge, also eating a cheese stick.

Simmons sits on the counter, sipping a glass of orange juice.

Sarge leans against the back of his chair, nursing his yoohoo.

There is a shocking lack of mac ‘n cheese to be seen in this room.

Wash closes his eyes again.

Fine. Whatever! These guys want to feel like shit while they go about their daily routine tomorrow? That’s not Wash’s problem.

But he glances again at Caboose, noting the dark shadows rimming his eyes as they struggle to stay open, even as they droop with utter exhaustion. Wash sighs. Then, he’s stuck by an idea.

Experimentally, he reaches up and runs his fingers through Caboose’s curly locks.

Caboose gasps at the contact, then hums contentedly in his throat. He tilts his head to the side, closer to Wash. Wash almost can’t contain his amusement as he continues to scratch at his scalp. It takes a few moments for Wash to realize that Caboose is sinking deeper and deeper into his seat until, in a matter of seconds, Caboose is lying with his head in Wash’s lap and he’s already fast asleep.

Wash’s mouth falls open. Then, he can’t stop the grin from splitting his face.

Oh thank _God_. He’s going to be using this _all. the. freaking. time._

Feeling someone’s gaze, Wash glances up to see Grif smirking at him. The red raises an amused eyebrow. Wash briefly considers giving him the finger, then decides he’d rather not stoop to Tucker’s level or give Grif the satisfaction. Instead, Wash just rolls his eyes and continues to run his fingers through Caboose’s hair.

This is so _weird_.

They’re all freaking _ridiculous_.

But Wash thinks… he might could get used to it.

The simtroopers maintain their conversation. 

Caboose hums again in his sleep.

Wash smiles. 

Yeah, this is fine.


End file.
